


Things Men Do

by Ducks



Category: Jossverse RPF, RPS, Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-03
Updated: 2004-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things men do together...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Men Do

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy, and does not in any way reflect the true feelings, relationships, or behavior of David Boreanaz or Christian Kane. As far as I know. *G* (I do, however, own them, and am willing to share for a reasonable fee.)
> 
> Third place winner at the 2004 rps_ficathon on LJ.

There are things men do together when they're young that they never tell their women later on. Not from shame, necessarily (although there is that - they are good old all-American Breeder Boys, after all), but from deference to the grown-ups that they've become since they've been civilized. Responsible. Oat-sown.

It's theirs and theirs alone, like that precious joint the closet-smoker sneaks in the backyard at three a.m., or the subscription to Twisted Titties that gets mailed to a PO Box instead of the house. It's that piece of Guy they keep to anchor their sanity.

There's still beer and tequila and whiskey, and they still guzzle just as much of all three, but now there are *women* around with their rules and acceptable volume levels and "you'd better give me your keys, honey". Now they puke in toilets that smell like Springtime Potpourri and haven't recently been drunk out of by dogs wearing bongwater-stained bandanas.

Things were different back then. Back then they vomited in each other's scum-encrusted bathtubs and fucked stray chicks from stray bars side by side on the living room rug and sat around in their shorts the next morning watching Jesus shows, scratching their aching balls and farting while they drank cut-rate brand bloody Mary mix without vodka and ate $.99 Taco Bell burritos to cure the hangover.

Back then they jerked each other off in the first boozy grey hint of dawn and passed out in one another's arms, sticky and sated on the fold-out couch without worrying that someone would come home and start screaming or demanding a divorce or calling the tabloids.

They never talk about it. Not explicitly. Not out loud. Not that time, or the next time it happens. Or the time after that, or the time after that. A hundred fucks between that first time and the last, and still never a word. They don't ask why's and how's and what now's. They don't say, "God, it was great teabagging you last night," or "When can I see you again?" or "What are you thinking?"

They just are, even now. Even after they're living in houses they actually own and making payments on SUV's and talking about college funds and retirement and vacationing in Europe somewhere where nobody's ever heard of them and they can walk the streets pretending they're not plagued by legions of squealing fangirls everywhere they go.

It happens like shadows now, when they're together. They do shots and play cards and talk until the room starts to wobble, whooping it up to fill the empty rafters where children's laughter is supposed to be while the wife and kids are at Grandma's. Chris leans over and slips his tongue between David's lips; David cradles a straight flush in one big hand and Chris' denim-encased cock in the other; it progresses so simply, so purely, from a look here to 69 on the couch there to cries and grunts and moans that would make a porn star blush.

Sometimes it happens like a lightning strike after a joint or two, a tune on guitar and bongos; they talk about Matthew McConaughey getting busted and "how fucking stoned was *he*?" David gives Chris that look, that dark look that makes him such a fucking *amazing* villain (and an even better sex symbol), and Chris laughs at the drama and asks him, "Do you wanna fuck or what?"

Boys don't have to play games. Men don't beat around the bush.

"Pretty much."

Flowers and chocolates and poetry? Pfft. Fuck that noise. Soft seduction is for the girls. Get to it, get off. That's the way they like to play it with each other. Trojans and Astroglide and nothing else.

Sometimes it happens like a tidal wave. In another world, another time, it could have been love -- they both know it. They taste it on each other's tongue as they fall, soft and laughing into clouds of Ecstacy.

But as it stands (or lies... or kneels...): here in the pool house, here in the back seat of the Mercedes, here, up against the wall in the men's room at the Exit 50 truck stop in San Diego. Here on Earth, it's just fucking.

It's damn fine fucking, but it's not their lives.

Jaime's never once looked Chris in the eye in all the time they've known each other. She made a comment once about what a pretty blue his were, and he said "thank you, darlin'" but he wasn't flattered. He wanted to laugh in her face and scream, "What the fuck do you know, you stupid bitch?"

But a gentleman never talks to a lady like that. Not ever. And she's *D's* lady, of all the ladies. So the eggshells he walks on there are thinner than your average supermarket variety.

He can't help thinking it, though, because the angry, burning green man that lives in his heart and his head and his cock wishes she would just... vanish. Deep inside, he's almost certain she knows the deal. Maybe she notices D's just a little more relaxed than usual after Poker Night. Maybe she's smelled Chris' cologne on the collar of David's jacket. Hell, for all he knows, she stands outside the bedroom window and watches them fuck -- watches her steaming hot mountain of man's man take it up the ass like a class-a twink, sobbing in bliss when he comes in Chris' hand.

But as long as she doesn't say anything, and David doesn't... neither does he.

Sometimes, it happens like a whirlpool, a sucking K-hole, and the world gets flushed right along with them. "I can't feel my arm, dude." "Heart attack?" "Don't think so." "Then shut up and suck me." They're glad the trailer has a concrete base and not shock absorbers or springs that would rock and announce to the world what the soundproofing makes it sound like they aren't bellowing at each other.

Fuck. Chris. Yeah. David. Yeah, baby. Harder. More. There, right there. Yeah, that's it. That'sitthat'sitfuckdon'tstopI'mgonnacome!

Sometimes they just hang (fully clothed, these days), watch the game, eat some steaks, and there's no pressure, no awkwardness the way there might be with a female they've been fucking regularly for a decade. There's no rules, no boundaries, no expectations. They're just guys... just buds. Just because they've had each other's dicks in their mouths doesn't mean...

Even when they're not young anymore, there are still things men do that they never tell their women later on. There are some things females just aren't meant to know.

Things men do together.

~~~ End ~~~


End file.
